Riggish
by Little Obsessions
Summary: Rated M Just to be safe for...suggestion, shall we say? Gomez and Morticia. A story of how Morticia grows in Gomez' eyes. And also of his love for her. but it's not fluffy...Addams Family.


The first time he meets her, in his young recollection she is small and timid, but somewhere in her eyes is a defiant glow. Her hair is in two tight plaits, pulled back from her pale face. Already, she has developed a love for gardening that he know she will take into later life. More importantly, cultivating beautiful, carnivorous plants. She is crouched down behind her late uncles tomb, surprisingly modest for a seven year old - he knows this for he is nine - and is running a small finger up and down the stem of a plant, which is snapping at her intermittently. She is teasing it, her finger fluttering over the bell of the plant and as it snaps, she pulls her finger swiftly away. She is intriguing. And he likes her teasing manner already.

"Hello," he says brightly from behind the tomb where he has been watching her, taking his cigar from his mouth and divesting it in his pocket, still alight " I am Gomez."

"I know," she looks up from under long eye lashes, " I have seen you before."

He is stumped by her cool answer but is not necessarily dissuaded from speaking to her, "I like your plant."

She smiles at this but then turns morose again, "Sadly, it is not mine. Mama says I must keep it in the cemetery, for I am too young for my own plant yet."

"I see," he strokes his chin, "By Jove, but you are good with it. I am sure you could take care of it."

"Thank you," she answers, stepping back from the plant and beginning to wander away. But she turns to him, her hand on hip while she rests her weight on one leg. This suits her.

"Do you like plants?"

"Yes!" He answers, taking large strides toward her, "But my favourite thing to do is blow up trains."

"That sounds like fun," she replies thoughtfully. He has a capitol idea to invite her to join him in blowing up some trains. But already, his Mother has come to fetch him for the off. He smiles at her again but follows behind his Mother. But he cannot help but turn back to look at her. She is crouching again on the ground, her legs crossed. How intriguing she is.

The next time he meets her, he is 16 and she is 14 and he is here for her sisters birthday party. But he is bored, it is very boring this party. Ophelia is not interesting, in fact she is quite strange by his mind. And he can barely remember what Morticia looks like. Fester however as always, is the life of the party and Gomez pales into insignificance beside him as he beats the squealing piñata. He wanders out of their modest house and into the fabulous garden, so much more in bloom than last he has seen it. In the middle of the garden, there is a bench and she sits on it. She is busy humming to herself, unravelling her hair from the only style in which he has ever seen it; braids. She moves in a jerky manner as she swings her hair back, but it settles round her face like a diabolic halo. When she sees him she almost jump in fright but not quite. Instead she turns the stutter into a movement and flicks her hair again. She is very beautiful, he realises. She is no longer that young child he has seen before.

"Hello," he notes the fact she is not wearing what she had always worn, the black smock of a child. Instead she is wearing a dress, not unlike the one she will be so fond of wearing when she is his wife. It is not as tight, perhaps not as long but it is enough to allow him to imagine the heaven beneath the material.

"Good evening," she answers, tilting her face up to the moonlight. She is beautifully pale in the dark and he smiles down. She has yet to develop a penchant for red lips but already her nails, some what shorter are a vivid red.

"How are you, Miss Frump?" He questions. She does not answer immediately, weighing up her answer on her tongue. She looks at him with fabulously huge eyes, her hand caressing the plant beside her.

"I am…bored," she narrows her eyes, "This is Ophelia's party and I am not entirely social - she is somewhat…"

She loses her words and he wonders what exactly she is about to say. He imagines she is a woman of few words normally. And he likes her even more for it.

"Might I sit?" He motions to the empty space on the bench beside her. She looks up, smiles slightly askew and pats the seat beside her.

"Please," she hold up her hand as he sits, which is covered in a vine of green and blood. Her arm is cut and marred and highly attractive, "Do you like her?"  
"Yes," he breathes but he cannot be quite sure himself if he is referring to the plant or indeed, the girl herself. The beauty of her arm and the beauty of her entirely. And the way she has changed.

"She is mine, you see…" she lifts the vine gently and offers it to him, immediately it wraps around his own arm and he is rather upset that he has a suit to protect him from the wonderful thorns. You can't have everything though.

"It s lovely," he turns to her, "Might I enquire if it is the one from behind your uncles tomb?"

"You remember?" She asks, slightly startled but wonderfully bright.

"Oh yes, indeed!" He answers, "I do fine remember."

She looks at him and raises an eye brow, "Yes. I have even named her now." She leaves him to inquire, he imagines she likes to be elusive.

"And what might I ask, is her moniker?…dear?" He is feeling brave and he can see, momentarily under the pale skin a flush of embarrassment? Pleasure perhaps? The affectation has certainly affected her.

"Cleopatra." She answers, "For she is riggish."

"I see," he is amazed a young woman can make such a statement. He is pleasantly amused, "You still like plants?"

"Yes. Do you still like trains?"

"I do indeed," he stands to go, "I wonder, Miss. Might you like to accompany me inside?"

He offers her his hand and she stares at his fingers. With a tentative movement, she reaches up.

"I imagine we shan't be bored in each others company," she says almost suggestively as she takes his offered hand and stands. He is startled by her candour and by the way her hips have began to swing.

He bounces jovially on the balls of his feet at the very sight of her walking ahead of him, then he runs swiftly to catch up.

He reaches out to touch her hair for he cannot resist. She turns to him enquiringly.

"You should wear your hair like that," he suggests brightly. She wears it no other way afterwards

The next time he sees her, he realises she has grown up fully now. It is across a grave and he is proud when Cousin Itt casually mentions the fact he is s a suspect in his cousins murder and he laughs jovially. She looks up from behind her long lashes and stares at his mouth. And she is being drenched by the cold rain. He wonders if she is enjoying the cold beneath her cloak. She is 19 now and he is 21.

At the end of the ceremony, he searches her out in the house afterwards were a firm celebration is taking place for even he envies his cousins death. He searches his entire home, passing cousin Lumpy who has been shackled to the banister by his aunt for his own good but he finds her far from the crowds, staring at the portrait of Fester. Gomez feels a pang of regret then a surge of happiness at the sight of her, her cloak now removed.

She turns to him though he barely makes a noise. She lowers her head demurely and again he sees the startling difference. He cannot say he has seen her, he did not even see her at the Debutant ball. Again he feels guilt about his brother but he pushes that aside in enthralment of her. Her ruby lips are slightly parted in a smile. She crosses her arms over he chest and because her dress is so restrictive, she balances her weight on one side of her body. He likes this about her, he likes the way she stand so imposingly and yet recedes quietly all at the same time.

"Hello," he smiles at her, tipping his cigar between his teeth and bowing slightly.

"Good evening, Gomez" it is the first time she has ever addressed him with his name and he twitches slightly with excitement he can barley contain. She is bewitching and he had not forgotten that.

"How are you? Miss-"

"Morticia," she tilts her head to the side as she interrupts, "Please."

"Morticia," he strides towards her confidently, "Might I ask you to dance?"

She turns to him and reaches out with a hand, her long nails scratching his wrist. He remembers the scratches on her arm the last he saw her. He bends at the waist and kisses her wrist for he is more than confident of himself.

"Merci," he imagines it slips out before she means it, for how does she know it enthrals him so much. But then again, he had not known this. He smiles devilishly up at her and is tempted to kiss his way up her arm. He does so slowly and ends at the base of her neck. She lifts his head with a finger and kisses him firmly on the lips, her nails digging ever so gently into his face.

Immediately, he realises what he shall do. He gets down on one knee, "Marry me?"

"Yes," she answers and her tone of voice drops suddenly, "Gomez."

He smiles up at her, "Now shall we dance?"

She offers her hand.

He sometimes wonders as she lies beside him, her head and hand resting on his chest and her nails scratching across his skin, leaving bloody welts, if she still feels the same. But then he laughs and puffs on his cigar. Of course she does. He looks down, and she smiles up. He likes it best when the house is empty and he can steal her away. The children and the returned Fester are out for the day. Mamma is gone with Lurch, picking berries in the swamp.

"What are you laughing at, Mon Cher?"

She sits up in all her glory, the sun dancing viciously against her acre skin. She leans forward and kisses his neck, her lips are cold. He hisses slightly, very aware he is losing cohesion as to what she asked.

He finds it hard to answer, "Nothing."

He clatters the shackles against the post of their bed, the only thing maintaining his decency being the silk sheets which he knows she is reaching for with a delicate hand." Now untie me?" He has the desperate urge to touch her.

She shakes her head and stripping the silk sheets, throws them to the floor and presses her entire body to him. Lying back down, she splays her entire body across his. He laughs again and with much skill, takes another unassisted puff on his cigar as she scours a delicate 'M' with a sharp nail just below his naval. It is deliciously painful and he wonders just how many of these scars he has.

So, giving this is the weirdest and possibly least read fandom ever, do you like?

Yours,  
M

xx


End file.
